


Where I've Been Lately

by almost_teacup



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Brendol Hux's A+ Parenting, Crack, Developing Friendship, Developing Relationship, F/F, Mostly Fluff, Rule 63, he taught his daughter nothing, neither did maratelle, slight angst, there's some fighting and sketchy admirals too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 01:38:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13330740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almost_teacup/pseuds/almost_teacup
Summary: One week into their working relationship, Armité Hux discovers that her co-commander Kyla Ren is a human woman with an angel face. Kyla decides to use this against her at every turn.This includes in meetings, after battle, and wherever else she likes. Armité knows this is a game, that she's the wrong end of a joke, that she shouldn't pay attention to it -- because it is just a joke. Right?





	1. Every Night of Late

The coffee-pot was gone from the officers’ kitchen.

This was the problem at present, but there was also her meeting with the admirals to contend with later, and the small trouble of—

_Crash._

_Crash crash._

A faint fizzing sound alerted her to the rest, the newest member of the _Finalizer’s_ crew was once again on a rampage.

Armité refused to acknowledge that they were co-commanders, because no commander worth their salt would act like this. The knight called Kyla Ren had been here a week, and had already wrecked half the rooms on the ship. 

Armité wanted to say this was done systematically, but something in her knew there wasn’t any logic to it. The whole matter would almost be comforting if she could figure out a system, if she knew that Kyla was trying to actually sabotage her operation, the star destroyer she still fought for control over, still wrested from admirals who resented her—but that wasn’t it. It was just thoughtless rage, frustration dealt with by destroying things.

And worse, she hadn’t been able to speak with the knight. At all. All week. Armité knew nothing of the other person except a name (a name which didn’t identify gender or species or anything else, it was only the absence of roaring that told her Ren wasn’t a Wookiee). Kyla was an incorrigible wraith. Kyla was faceless. 

And what kind of name—well. She was called Armité. She couldn’t make fun of names, she thought, even as the fizzing and whirring, all too familiar already, got closer. 

_Not now. Don’t get to the kitchen before I get my coffee._ She knew the goddess didn’t answer such inconsequential prayers, but it didn’t hurt to ask. 

Armité grabbed a strainer from under the stove and put coffee-grounds in it, turned the kettle on, and poured. If the pot wasn’t there, damn it, she would still have her caffeine. She just had to wait for the water to run through. 

The knight stormed in as Armité was waiting on gravity, and while she wanted to scream, she’d already tried that. At least the lightsaber was off. That meant the worst was over. 

And yet, there was no telling when it would happen again, and perhaps no way to stop it. 

She’d tried everything Brendol used to keep her mind disciplined, and everything Maratelle used to keep her appearance in line. Rage. Intimidation. Glowering. 

If she _still_ heard Maratelle’s voice sternly telling her to wear eyeliner when she was tempted to forgo it, something about sternness must be effective. 

But it wasn’t. Not here.

She’d tried her personal threat, _do this again and I’ll defenestrate you,_ and that hadn’t worked either. So, with her hands practically shaking, she chose another tactic. The lightsaber was off, she told herself. She could bolt before being run through if this provoked another tantrum. 

“Would you like some coffee?”

The door slid shut in a flash, and black-gloved hands came up to some mysterious helmet-catch, just as Armité turned around to get another mug ready. This wasn’t what she expected. But then, there was hardly anything to expect—her past week had been spent with a spectre, and maybe the spectre was more drawn to coffee than scared of threats. It shouldn’t have been a shock. 

What _was_ a shock was the distinctly female voice that said, “absolutely.”

And the fact that Kyla Ren had an angel’s face, framed by thick black hair. It was no wonder she wore a mask. Wide eyes, quiet expression. No one in the order would take her seriously as she was, which was a failing of the order to be sure, but that was that. Beauty wasn’t met with much respect, especially not this kind. Ren looked gentle. Almost—

Armité coughed. Attraction to a co-commander--to someone this impulsive at all--was not acceptable. 

“I trust you will accompany me to the meeting with the admirals?” 

She handed Kyla the cup she’d intended for herself, and turned to make another. They might be a spare minute late. The admirals could handle it. She was punctual with her crew, to be sure, but the hatred between herself and the higher-ups was mutual, and everyone knew it. 

“ _Really?_ ” The other woman sounded far too sarcastic for her own good. 

“Yes, really, we’re supposed to be co—”

“You just said I was an angel, and now you’re asking about meetings? If you’re going from flirting to business that fast, I’m not sure I can keep up.”

“I said nothing of the kind.”

“Not out loud. Where’s the sugar?” 

_Blasted Force-user._

“I wouldn’t know. I’m sure you can find it.” Of _course_ someone so insufferable would drink their coffee with sugar.

“Hm. Figures you drink yours bitter.”

She would not let this get to her. 

So anyone I should watch out for? I’ve heard the admirals can be a little—pushy.” the knight asked, after a moment of silent rustling. There had to be a punch line coming here, because the knight didn't have to watch out for anyone. She could throw you clean across a room as soon as she looked at you, and she'd do it without thinking. If she was trying to get Armité to admit weakness, she would have to try something less blatant. 

“They’re really all right.”

This was perhaps the most severe lie Armité had ever told. The admirals were unbearable, especially with her, especially a certain one who -- she didn't want to think about him in the knight's presence. 

Basically, he had some bizarre desire to make her straight, and some other bizarre desire to dictate her moral compass, and he made both of those quite clear whenever he saw her. It was enraging. 

“You know I can feel how agitated you are. It’s radiating. You want me to come with you because you want a protector. Don’t you?” She wouldn’t give the other woman the satisfaction of turning, but was frightfully aware that the voice had come closer. 

Armité straightened her greatcoat and washed out the makeshift coffee-maker instead of saying anything. She would not dignify such nonsense with a response, and settled on another question instead.

“What did you destroy earlier?”

“I’m not really sure.” She also sounded entirely untroubled. “It had buttons.” 

“How terribly helpful. _Buttons._ And I’ve got to fix it, while you can you go around wrecking things as though it’s all—”

“You’re lucky, you know. Snoke goes after people.” 

If anything was going to still Armité, stop her from really going off, it was that. Despite the knight’s nonchalance, despite the destruction, even the messy attempt at embarrassing her—even with all that, the admission halted her.

“I’ll allow that it could be worse. Now, let’s go. Are you going to put that back on?” She gestured to the helmet.

“No. It would keep me from drinking this.”

Armité nodded. 

“It would _also_ keep you from admiring my angelic face amid all those old admirals.”

“And wouldn’t you hate that.” She could play, too. 

“I’m not sure yet.”

She might be able to play, but Ren was winning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Lo" by Lisa Hannigan


	2. But I Have Found It Easy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting with the admirals goes awry, and Kyla knows exactly how to fix it. Or perhaps how to make it worse.

 

She felt like a little raven next to the admirals, dressed in white with their old and arrogant faces. Her lower standing was made evident merely by her blazer and greatcoat and lack of rank-marks, while they wore capes and white shirts with bar after bar of colorful lines. And they were far too tall. It made her feel for a bare second like she was at their mercy. Not that she would ever allow that to remain the case. 

She held her head a little higher than she had to when she walked in, but even that wasn’t helping much. She was sure she looked unprofessional with her cup of coffee and Kyla looking like a bodyguard next to her. The woman hadn’t been introduced to anyone yet, and her armor certainly didn’t suggest that she was working alongside Armité.

Neither did her actions. But that wasn’t the point.

“I thought you said they were scary,” Kyla whispered. 

“You’re joking, right?”

“They’re ancient and trying to feel young again by terrorizing the galaxy. That’s not scary.”

“Says someone who’s known them for a minute.”

“And how long have _you_ known them, chickadee?”

She would not respond to the outrageous infraction of _pet names._ She would not respond. She would not. They’d been getting along for almost forty-five minutes now, and she wouldn’t let the utter _disrespect—_ she had to breathe. 

Armité recognized most of the men in the room. That was always the worst part, really—some of them had been Brendol’s friends (if Brendol had been capable of friendship).

Two others had been Maratelle’s—well—whatever Maratelle used to have before she left them altogether. It confused Armité when she was little, and in truth, she never _really_ wanted to be set straight about what they were to her mother. Brendol never mentioned it, never fought about it or tried to keep them away, but Maratelle always described them to her daughter as the sort of men she should stay away from. 

_Not that she was setting any sort of example._

_Not that Armité even_ liked _men._

_Not that Maratelle would have accepted that._

There was only one that really unnerved her, and his name was Tristan. An unduly romantic name, she thought, for someone so ridiculous. He wasn’t subtle. He would saunter up to her, and ask whether it was _still working out with her girlfriend,_ which it wasn’t—she and Andrea had run up against each other in too many ways for that to ever turn out. 

The woman had somehow brought out her sternness even more than everyone else did, and in turn she’d fed Andrea’s insecurity. In hindsight they should have known it before they tried, their rocky friendship was enough of a warning. It was a small blessing that they were assigned to different ships, because neither wanted to see the other at the moment. Anyway, no, it was _not_ working out with her girlfriend. 

“I’m glad. I thought you were making a bad decision there.”

_Your face is making a bad decision being this close to my face,_ she thought, which almost set her off laughing. How outrageous. Her brain must be broken. 

Unfortunately, this thought caught the Force-user’s attention and _did_ set off Kyla, and Armité felt a sudden moment of exasperated appreciation for her, quietly trying to disguise her laughter as coughing. She felt just a little less horrified at the company of all these men. Not to mention how the coughing was a terrible disguise, wasn’t working at all, couldn’t fool anyone— which only provoked more of that—feeling. 

A normal person may have called it affection, but Armité Hux was not a normal person.

“Shall we begin?” She asked, walking to her seat at the head of the table. She may not have held the rank, but she was commander of the ship, and she would have them remember it. 

“As I’m sure you’re aware,” Tristan began (though she should call him Admiral now), “we are here to propose a project for you and your— _co-commander—_ to undertake.”

“What would that be?”

“A weapon. One of unparalleled size and strength, which will put the galaxy back under our rightful control.”

“I’ve said it before, gentlemen.” She stood and straightened her skirt and began to pace. “Looking to the imperial past is not effective, and it never will be.”

“But this would destroy entire systems. We call it the Starkiller, it would bring everyone to us without question. The power of it would be unimaginable.” 

Now that was a blow, not that they could’ve been aware of it. Brendol had never shown affection for her in public. But in private, he’d called her that. While Maratelle dressed her in frills and nicknamed her _princess,_ said boys would be banging the door down someday, Brendol called her _little starkiller._ Both were warped, to be sure, but she’d always preferred her father’s warp to her mother’s. At least he hadn’t pretended she would lead a wife’s existence, nobody ever thought she would, not really.

_Princess_ was a jab. _Starkiller_ had been something to live up to.

But not like this. She could be angry, she could be controlling and terrifying, she was leading an army, but she could not destroy what would amount to seven planets at once. The loss—Armité didn’t believe in the Force, but certainly that would have to throw something out of balance. 

She was sure that Kyla felt her jolt from the other side of the table. And unlike some people, unlike Maratelle especially, Armité didn’t parse words with the admirals. She told them exactly what she thought and exactly why. It was part of why they hated her. It was also, according to Snoke, why they had to put up with her. 

“That’s _outrageous._ ”

“You would speak back to us that way before you’ve even looked at the plans?”

“I would preserve entire star systems from an act of impractical nostalgia.”

“But if we—”

“This meeting is over. I will take no part in such a matter. Even I’ve got more sense than to continue with this. Come back when you remember how easily the Death Star was destroyed, and have a real project for me.”

With that, she left, and Kyla followed. 

She was expecting some sort of reprimand, some pushback, some comment about how it was really not very dark-side of her to just shoot down the opportunity to blow up whole planets. That was not what she got. She got no reaction at all, actually. Kyla seemed to have forgotten about the meeting the moment it ended, and as she wove through the corridors, the other woman checked her comm for messages. 

“Chickadee, guess what—”

“I will not respond to that. We’ve known each other for an hour.”

“A week!”

“I didn’t see your face until today.”

“Well then, my dear General—you don’t really expect me to call you General forever, do you?”

“We’ll see.” It occurred to her suddenly that she had no idea where Kyla was leading her. They were in a part of the ship she almost never saw.

“If you’re not going to be nice to me, I won’t tell you,” Kyla sang. She was practically bouncing. What an utter child.

“I’m being perfectly civil.”

“That’s not the same thing as nice, General. But because I’m in a good mood I’ll tell you anyway, Doph and Thannison want to go planet-side tonight.”

“What for, pray tell?”

Kyla squinted. “Are you crazy? We have tomorrow off! We’re going _out._  And from how that meeting just went, you need it.”

The tall woman wasn't wrong, Armité could certainly use a drink. She definitely didn't want to think about the fact that she'd just called her parents' old acquaintances ridiculous, or that she'd just refused a project on the grounds of an ideology that was so very New Republic. Maybe she should throw it all into the trash compactor for an evening, pick back up in the morning. 

Her father was ruthless, and even he'd taken breaks. 

But then, it was never a mere drink with those two, and she was sure Kyla shared their love of excesses. She’d only been out with Doph and Thannison once, and they’d almost died. They’d been on Courascant, and Thannison, one too many vodka-cranberries in, yelled something unintelligible and bolted. They’d lost him for a short and terrifying while, because it was blasted Courascant, and you can’t keep track of anybody there unless you’re practically holding hands with them. 

And how had her co-commander gotten to know the crew fast enough to be going out with them when they’d only just started speaking? 

Armité would grant that perhaps those two had been kinder than she was. 

“First we’re going to my shuttle to put on civilian clothes, then planet-side to get some chicken nuggets—” she paused as though she could see Armité’s mental grimace. Turns out she could, because after a moment, she started up again with, “oh, you don’t like chicken nuggets? Are you even human—anyway, then we’re meeting up with them somewhere in the city. If you’d like that, General.” This last sentence was uttered with biting sarcasm and a little bit of something else that Armité didn’t like any better. 

_And were knights even allowed to drink?_

“I’m not some Jedi, I do what I want. Now, are you coming? You can borrow something of mine to wear.”

Armité knew she shouldn’t be going. It was eerie how the knight knew her questions before she asked them aloud, and exasperating that she was already trying to call her nonsense like “chickadee.” And, as another black mark to her name, Kyla already knew that Armité found her attractive, and she wasn’t shy about it. This was a terrible idea. 

She knew it. 

But then, someone had to make sure the other three didn’t blow something up. Right? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the song "Spitting Fire" by The Boxer Rebellion. 
> 
> I know Hux is a little Out of Character, but I feel like Fem!Hux would have had even more trouble with Maratelle than she'd have had with Brendol. As a result, she's a little too eager to tell off the men that her mother fawned over.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from a song called "Sophia" by Laura Marling : "Where I've been lately's no concern of yours"


End file.
